Two engines of war, on sides opposed,
Look over the field below.
On battlements of gnomish make,
A catapult waits to throw
Its crystal clusters skyward. Here
Atop Smoke Mountain's heights
Stands a still (but sturdy) springnal,
Symbol of the finkish might.

In sorry states of disrepair
The weapons sit in silence,
As on the battlefield below -
A swarming sea of violence.
Eye for eye and hand for claw,
The gnomes and rat-like finks
Have been locked in equilibrium
Much longer than you'd think.
The finks, naked and odorous,
Fight with primal aggravation;
The gnomish knights in plate-mail,
Don a bantam indignation.

This trebuchet may turn the tide,
Or this catapult, perhaps,
Might save King Newton's sovereignty
From inevitable collapse.
If the big fink champion Fartokan
Can make this springnal launch,
The finks will be victorious.
(Just call it a hunch.)
Alas, the enigmatic lever,
The torsion arm, the clasp,
Seem too finely engineered
For his finkish brain to grasp.
A twist, a tug, a curse (or two)
And wrong is set to right.
The springnal now waits patiently
To enter in the fight.

If all proceeds, within the sling
Will sit a noisome vessel
Crammed with home-cooked unguent,
Dripping down the trestle.
A visit to the matriarch,
To see that all is well,
Quickens all my faculties,
All my doubts dispels.
As I peer into the cauldron
In which the Jelly bubbles,
My sense of smell confirms it:
The gnomes are in big trouble.